


Consummation

by zaphodsgirl



Series: Forgive Me, Father [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Pining Castiel, Priest Castiel, This installment is really foreplay for the next one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaphodsgirl/pseuds/zaphodsgirl
Summary: Castiel wants to surrender himself completely, but Dean has a stipulation.





	Consummation

It's been over a month since Dean came to visit him in the confessional, and Castiel has contemplated all the various permutations of fire. How it can be hidden and secret, waiting in a few coals, its heart just an ember looking for the caress of air to bring it to life. An ember that begins to glow with hope when given oxygen, pulsing with excitement as it absorbs the fuel it desires, growing stronger and stronger until it bursts into a flickering flame.

Fire, contained, gives warmth and comfort. It can warm liquids or cook food; in a controlled setting it will only consume what it is fed. 

Unleashed, it will consume everything in its path, freed of any conscience. Given free rein, fire will burn all that you cherish to the ground, leaving you with nothing but ashes.

On most days, Castiel feels like the ember, biding its time among the coals until he can soak up the oxygen of Dean's presence. In those moments Dean is patient with him, tending to his flame, keeping watch over him so that he doesn't burst into a million directions at once. Tempering his passion, keeping him controlled.

He doesn't know what will happen, should he become the wildfire.

Dean no longer comes to services, and Castiel is grateful. He doesn't think he could focus on his duty if he had those eyes upon him, full of seductive promise. As it is, he can barely get through Sunday services, mind too full of all the things he'd done the previous evening. The potency of those memories becomes more manageable as the week toils on, and by Friday evening he is barely affected by them, only to supplant them with fresher moments spent in Dean's arms.

Every Friday and Saturday evening he makes the drive out to Singer Salvage, the anticipation for their assignation making his hands tremble on the steering wheel. He has not yet reached the point where he is consumed by guilt about what's happening, doesn't even try to talk sense to himself. Dean is still a drug he has yet to accept his dependency on, and each time he leaves it gets harder and harder. 

"Stay," Dean whispers this Friday night as Castiel slides out from beneath the sheets of his bed and starts to dress himself. "Stay tonight, Castiel."

"You know I can't." He wants to, desperately, but people will talk if their priest starts spending the night somewhere other than his own bed. "I'll be back tomorrow, right after confession ends." He fastens his pants and zips them, sitting on the bed to pull on his socks, glancing at Dean over his shoulder. "Perhaps, tomorrow, we could..."

"Could what, Cas?" Dean rolls onto his side, propped on one elbow, the sheet sliding off his hip in a tantalizing way despite the expanse of already bare skin in plain view. Castiel's eyes linger on that hip, on the way the sheet catches on Dean's member, keeping it hidden and accentuating it all at once. His eyes move upwards, lingering on the hollow of Dean's throat before their eyes meet. 

Castiel opens his mouth, knowing what he wants but not how to ask. "Well, we've only, um. So far we've only..." He looks away and hangs his head, embarrassed. He feels Dean shifting on the bed to sit behind Castiel, naked form pressed against his back and chin hooked over his shoulder.

"Tell me," Dean says in his ear.

"I want to go further than we have," he finally says, hoping that Dean understands what he means. He feels that they've done so much together and not enough all at once, and his desire to penetrate Dean is outweighed only by his desire to be penetrated himself. 

Dean nuzzles the skin below his ear, and Castiel leans into the sensation of stubble warming the flesh, reddening it. "We can take this further when you can spend the night."

"Dean, you know I can't."

"I know you shouldn't. I really do know but... Cas. Once I get to taste you like that, I won't want to let go of you so easily." Castiel shivers, leaning his head back and taking a deep breath. When Dean says things like this it makes it difficult for him to remember that what they're doing is merely physical; when Dean says these things, Castiel replays them over and over in his mind even more than the clandestine touches between them. He sighs, pulling away with effort and putting on the rest of his clothing without looking at Dean. He doesn't force their nightly separation because he enjoys it, but out of self preservation. Eventually this thing between them will come to an end, and Dean will move on to someone else. Castiel will have nothing to move onto, nowhere to go except back to the cloth. If anyone were to find out what they were doing it would put his livelihood in jeopardy, so he can't risk not going back to the rectory every night. To lose his position would mean to lose his place in the world.

He's also afraid that waking up in Dean's arms will make him wish _that_ were his place instead, and it's too close, too close to the conflagration. 

Dean doesn't get out of bed as Castiel moves to the door, giving him a last look. He hasn't moved since he asked Castiel to stay, and the moonlight through the curtain throws him into silhouette as he gazes out the window, back to the door. 

Castiel goes downstairs and lets himself out of the house, turning the lock on the doorknob and pulling it shut behind him. He can't resist a last look up at the window, hoping to see the curtain pull back, for Dean to wave goodbye, but none of that happens before he gets into his car and drives away.

He frets for the entire drive back to the rectory, then frets some more as he lies alone in his staid bed, one hand under the pillow with his hand on the bible Dean bound for him. He doesn't know when he finally drifts to sleep, but his dreams are fractured and troubled, and when he wakes he feels he hasn't slept at all. He has been trying for weeks to give himself fully to Dean, but Dean keeps all their interludes to a sensual dance of hands and mouths, never allowing it to go beyond that. Cas knows that to get what he wants, he'll have to pay a price. 

On the surface, it seems a small price -- for what does Dean really want from him except time? A matter of hours, really, in the grand scheme of things, and Castiel has nothing but a life full of idle hours that could be better spent. 

That afternoon he drives back to Dean's house, parking his car just inside the salvage yard where it won't be spotted by an errant visitor. He knocks on the door, and Dean opens it with an exasperated look.

"Cas, I've told you before that you can just come in." He takes a few steps back so that Castiel can enter, then shuts and locks the door behind him. He hooks a finger through one of Castiel's belt loops, pulling him in for a soft kiss. "Hey. I missed you." Castiel can't stop the small smile that steals onto his face any more than he can stop the blush that creeps up his neck, and Dean gives him a soft smile in return before crowding him up against the door to kiss him more thoroughly.

On Fridays their interactions are usually hurried, frantic after being apart for five straight days with only a few hours that evening to catch up before Castiel leaves. Saturdays are languorous in comparison, and Dean unbuttons Castiel's shirt from the bottom up as he presses their foreheads together, hooking his finger underneath the white plastic collar and pulling it free just before he opens the last button. As he does each time, he places it on the kitchen counter, then takes Castiel's keys from his hand and puts them next to it. He slides his hands across Castiel's ribs and around his back, massaging the skin with his fingers as he mouths at his neck. 

"Let's go get you into something more comfortable," Dean whispers into his ear, and Castiel shivers in anticipation. Dean gives him a change of pants and a t-shirt each time he comes over, but it's never as simple as just changing clothes. He follows meekly as Dean leads him up the stairs and into the bedroom, never letting go of his hand until he turns to slide the open shirt off Castiel's shoulders. Dean holds Castiel's gaze as the shirt pools on the floor behind him, doesn't break it even as he unbuttons his pants and pulls down the zipper. Castiel can't hold back the slight gasp as Dean slips his hands into the pants, cupping his ass as they follow the shirt to the floor and walking him backwards out of them until his knees hit the mattress. He's still caught in that gaze, like a butterfly on a board, as Dean's hands trace across his lower back and around his ribs before flattening against his chest.

"Dean," is all he manages to whisper before he's pushed back onto the mattress.

"You seem tense, Cas," Dean says, crawling onto the mattress over him, straddling Castiel's thighs and bracing himself on his hands. "Maybe I can help you relax."

"How?" Castiel whispers, though he knows. He still can't believe after a month that he gets to be touched like this by the main character of every secret dream he kept to himself in the dark. He doesn't know if he'll ever get used to it, the illicit thrill that raises the hair on his arms and makes his skin tingle. 

Dean doesn't reply with words, but he doesn't look away. He shifts his body to one side and runs the knuckles of his right hand ever so lightly along prominent tent of Castiel's white boxer shorts, biting his bottom lip as he watches Castiel's breath quicken. He strokes lightly a few times before hooking one finger under the elastic at the hip, pulling it away from the skin and down to free Castiel's growing erection. He leans in, finally breaking their gaze as his lips brush against the shell of Castiel's ear.

"Lift your hips for me." Castiel does, and Dean deftly pulls the boxers down to his thighs, leaving them on but with him fully exposed to the air. Dean runs the pad of his index finger up along Castiel's length, and it twitches in response, eager for his touch, and so Dean finally wraps his fingers around the hard shaft and strokes it lightly. He keeps his eyes on his work, but Castiel doesn't take his own off Dean's profile. Dean jerks him lightly at first, bringing him to full hardness, leaning down to suck at one of Castiel's nipples as he does so. It doesn't take long before pre-come is beading at the tip of his cock, and Dean glances up long enough to give him a wink. He moans softly as Dean licks his own palm, then wraps his fingers more firmly around Castiel's cock and starts stroking him in earnest, from base to tip, swirling his thumb around the head at the top. 

It's embarrassing how quickly he reaches the edge, and he's still not sure if that's because of his lack of experience or because it's Dean that's touching him. Maybe Dean is just extraordinarily skilled. Whatever the reason, it only takes a few minutes for him to get to the precipice, gripping Dean's bicep as he gasps out his name. At the very last minute Dean moves swiftly to take the head of Castiel's cock into his mouth as he comes, shooting his release helplessly into the back of that hot, wet place. His limbs all go lax as he sinks into the mattress, trying to catch his breath. Dean moves to hover over him, grinning, and Castiel paws weakly at Dean's fly. 

"Let me," he offers, but Dean shakes his head. 

"Uh-uh, I'm saving that for later," he says as he moves his hips away from Castiel's hands until he lets them flop weakly at his sides. "Do you want to get dressed and come back downstairs, or do you want to take a nap while I make dinner?" 

"I'll get dressed," he finally says after pretending to mull it over. He would love to take a nap, but he'd rather do it with Dean beside him. He doesn't want to waste any of their limited time together sleeping, not unless they do it together. He supposes he can understand, a little, why Dean has his special condition before taking things too far between them. But only a little. 

Dean rolls off the bed and hands him a pair of flannel sleep pants and a threadbare t-shirt, both worn soft from years of use. Castiel smiles as he changes, unable to contain himself at the thrill he gets from wearing Dean's clothes, if only for a few hours. He runs his hand over what's left of the shirt's design, the name of a band, he thinks, but he can no longer make it out. 

"Do you want socks?" Dean asks, but he shakes his head. He pads after Dean in his bare feet, relishing the feel of the different textures against his soles; he's always wearing shoes unless he's in his bedroom back at the rectory, and the floor there is always bare and cold. 

He sits at the kitchen table and watches as Dean layers ingredients into a large glass baking dish: some sauce from a large pot on the stove, then a layer of lasagna noodles, then cheese and meat and on and on until the dish is full and his mouth is watering. This is another thing Dean does every Saturday, and to Castiel this is the part that feels even more forbidden than the things they do with their bodies, this domesticity. He'd never given a thought to giving it up, before. He remembers stuffy, almost formal dinners with his family as he was growing up, and when he would go home to visit during seminary they just became more and more awkward. Castiel hasn't bothered to go home now in a long time, and he's never given it a second thought. 

These moments with Dean are so different, though, from the only family life that Castiel ever knew. Dean sings to himself as he moves around the kitchen, sometimes belting out a line and pointing at Castiel while he bobs his head; but more often he sings lowly, as though it's an unconscious thing that he does to keep himself company. Though why Dean lacks for company is an utter mystery to him; though he parks his car out of sight each time, no one has ever dropped by to visit Dean while Castiel has been here. All those months spent getting to know one another -- months during which Castiel had been slowly falling without being conscious of it, like a slow motion jump off a building in an action movie -- Dean had spoken often of the people he loved, but all of them were far away: Sam going to law school now in California, his Uncle Bobby retired to Colorado, his Aunt Ellen and cousin Jo out in Nebraska somewhere. He had a friend Charlie that he always talked about, too, but Castiel was never entirely sure just where Charlie lived, because Dean seemed to converse with her entirely over the internet. 

In any case, he can't understand how someone as handsome and charming as Dean isn't busy every weekend doing other things with his peers. Other people that are free to be with him out in the open. Not that Castiel wants that, of course, because just thinking of the time when that inevitably would come to pass chills his blood and makes him forget all thoughts of fire.

Castiel remembers the woman that Dean used to live with: lovely, with tan skin and dark hair. She had been the devout one, apparently, and Dean had been coming along since before Castiel took over the congregation. Castiel had noticed Dean for the first time during his third Sunday service, when he'd finally gotten relaxed enough to look out into the pews, and he'd nearly stumbled over his sermon when he caught those eyes. 

It wasn't until some time later that Castiel finally noticed the woman sitting beside Dean every Sunday, with his hand firmly clasped in hers. It had been like being doused with cold water, just what he needed to remember his place. To remember that the man with the plush lips and the intense eyes was a member of his _congregation_ , someone who looked to him for guidance. He'd kept his eyes on his pulpit after that, barely looking into the pews. They never lingered after the service, and for a long time Castiel didn't even know his name. 

And then, on a nondescript Sunday morning after all the other parishioners had left, Castiel walked back into the church to find a solitary figure sitting in one of the pews. He knew who it was at a glance, and it took a moment for him to collect himself enough to speak.

"Can I help you?"

The man had hung his head, and as Castiel drew even with the pew where he sat he could see the sad smile on his face. 

"I'm not sure, Father," he'd said, but clearly something was on his mind. Castiel took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the pew, still a couple of feet from him. 

"Well, I can listen, even if I can't help. What is your name?" 

"Dean."

"Hello, Dean. I suppose I needn't introduce myself." Dean had smiled for real then, and when he'd turned it in Castiel's direction he'd pinched his thigh to ground himself. "Is your companion waiting for you outside?"

"No," he'd said, rubbing his hands on his thighs, and Castiel pinched himself again. "No, she's gone." 

It had been the first conversation of many between them, and now he watches Dean move around the kitchen, still awed that he gets to see him like this. Amazed that he gets to see him naked and vulnerable, his skin kissed by moonlight and perspiration, a sated smile on his face. Castiel wanted Dean for so long in ways he couldn't even articulate, had no frame of reference for, but now as he watches him he knows exactly what he wants.

"Dean."

"Just a sec," he responds, opening the oven to put in the lasagna, then setting the oven timer before turning to Castiel with a smile. "What's up?" The smile undoes him a little, and he realizes that knowing what he wants and saying it aloud are different things. He stands, moving over to crowd Dean up against the counter, cupping his face as he kisses him intently. Dean's hands fall onto his hips, grasping tightly as the kiss intensifies. Castiel pulls away, finally, leaning their foreheads together. 

"I want you, Dean."

"You have me, Cas."

"I mean...I want you inside me." 

"Cas..."

"The weekend after next," he says, cutting Dean off. He slides his hands down, caressing Dean's shoulders, his biceps, then tracing across his chest before he flattens his palms against it. "I can make arrangements for a substitute when I go to visit my family for the weekend. I'll leave on Friday evening, and they won't expect me back until Monday."

"I'm not connecting the dots here, Cas."

Cas pulls back to look at him, wondering how much to reveal, wondering if he wants to be naked before Dean in more ways than one.

" _You_ are my family, Dean."


End file.
